A stranger in the Mirror
by Bee
Summary: Some Scully thoughts.


TITLE: A stranger in the mirror.

AUTHOR: A rather embarrassed Bee Slayer hides head

RATING: Somewhere in between PG-13 and R? I have no idea. 

SPOILERS: None yet

SUMMARY: A bit of Scully self-realisation...slight angst ahead.

Where the hell did this come from??? Deck the halls indeed…LOL

* * *

"She looks in the mirror,   
Her reflection someone old,  
Seeing days goes by,  
She don't need to be told"

(Couldn't tell you who or what that song is.)

I wipe the steam from the bathroom mirror with my wet hand, watching as my reflection clears.

I hardly recognise myself, standing fresh from the shower, no makeup, no Agent-Scully-power-suit or high heels. No shields. It's just me, nothing else, and to be truthful, I don't like what I see.

I remember the night's dream - the same dream as I've had every night for the past month. It's never the same, slight variations each time, but the basic outline is always identical.

I briefly close my eyes, feeling the memories wash over me. His hot breath on my face, wandering hands all over my body. I can still feel the heat of his touch, the want in his eyes, the impossible pleasure I felt...

I remember it as if it happened yesterday, as if it were more than merely a series of dreams dreamt by a woman who can never have what she wants.

Still, I stare at myself, my reflection gazing back, unrelenting. A face that shows no pity, no understanding.

Because the person looking back at me *doesn't* understand. She *doesn't* know why she's having these dreams, or why she's having so much trouble forgetting them the next day. I was always able to do that before; put whatever dream I'd had behind me, forgetting it once daylight arrived.

And it isn't as if I haven't dreamt of him in *that* way before, I have since we first met, since that first day in his office, his dark eyes boring into my own.

But this time it seems different. More...more real.

I know they aren't real. He's never so much as touched me, not in that way. And especially not the way he does in my dreams, loving and hungry. Wanting.

There's never been an inkling that he wants to, either.

*Liar,* my reflection seems to say. The mirror's starting to steam up again, but this time I don't clear it. I don't want to see myself anymore.

Don't want to see my accusing glare, the glare telling me to wake up and smell the reality of our situation.

I want him.

I want him to touch me like that, want to feel his soft lips on my skin, I ache to feel him inside me.

It isn't only a matter of lust, if it were we would have...we might have 6 years ago. 

But it isn't so simple, is it?

*Why not?* Asks my quickly disappearing self, an eyebrow arched.

I almost smile, it's as if I'm interrogating myself. Maybe I should be, because no one else is going to do it.

Another image from the dream comes back to me, I stand there, completely exposed in front of him, feeling nothing but arousal. No embarrassment. No shame. No fear.

What's that telling me? Some sort of subconscious realisation that maybe I 'm ready to open up to him? That it's time to break down those shields.

Maybe I should, maybe the time has come. 

But I can't.

I cross my arms over my chest, suppressing a shiver. It's winter, no time to be standing around in a towel.

But still, I can't bring myself to turn away, to get out and get ready before...

Before what?

Before I make a decision I'll regret? Before I depress myself? 

Because I've already made plenty of decisions I regret, and depression? 

I give a bitter laugh, wiping the mirror once more, hating the expression on my reflection's face. It's an expression of...of hate, for lack of a better word. But who is there to hate? This is no more his fault than it is my own. We're casualties of circumstances, nothing more than that.

Circumstances beyond our control, controlled by men above us.

They're the people to hate.

No, I'm not going to let myself get into that right now. 

I'm not going to get into *anything*, I'm going to walk out of this bathroom and get dressed and go to work. I almost do, too, turning a fraction of a degree towards the door.

Do I ever cry out in my sleep?

The question comes from nowhere, almost startling me. My reflection looks back, and I swear there's a glimmer of triumph there in her face, an echo of 'I told you so.'

I did. I told myself 6 years ago that if I wasn't careful I was going to fall in love with him, and look what happened.

Look what happened indeed.

For the first time in months we had to share a hotel room last night. Certainly the first time since I started having the Dreams.

Do I call his name during my dreams? Moan aloud at the moment of climax?

And if I do, did he hear me?

He didn't say anything before he left this morning to get some breakfast...of course he didn't, he wouldn't want to embarrass me. Wouldn't want anything to come of it before either of us were ready. And would probably be more than a little afraid to mention it. I should know.

I turn away from the mirror, wrapping my towel tighter around me as I go out to face the sunlight streaming through the window.

Maybe we'll never be ready.

But at least we have our dreams, both of us do. 

For now, they'll have to be enough.

* * *

...the reason I *don't* write smut.

cringe Was that bad, or was that bad?

Oh dear, I am *so* sorry! Hardly getting into the Christmas spirit, is it?

Flames etc to [bee_slayer@hotmail.com][1]

Merry Xmas!

LOL

   [1]: mailto:bee_slayer@hotmail.com



End file.
